Me to you (Metube)
by crossoverqueen96
Summary: A young woman dealt her own hand of tragedy fights to find and keep the light in her life when forced into a legal battle with a man that is trying to take that all away from her. A story of the constant battle of life and all the ability to overcome.
1. Prologue

Prologue

We had no business being at a club in downtown Chicago; we had no business drinking ourselves silly. We had no business acting out like the teenagers we no longer could be. Emily had flown up to keep me company during the beginning part of treatment, but I had already been out here for a little bit to grow accustom to this new life in the city. I wouldn't lie, I needed support, but not just any support. I needed _hers_ ; I needed her mother hen-ness and overprotectiveness, that sometimes could be overwhelming, but never failed to be stirred inside of that woman when one of her "ducklings" were hurting. She decided to step out of her comfort zone to drag me out drinking like the days of old, or something.

She kept the drinks flowing and kept the laughter on loop. Em had been right: it did in fact get my mind off my worries for a little while. Emily was one of the few who knew the reasoning behind me taking up residence in Chicago. I trusted her with my life, and she wouldn't stray from that trust. We had been allies for _years._ Sometimes, it had been us against the world, but you grow up. You get graduate, you get married, you move on with your life… or you're me.

Emily Halbert was a stunning red head with eyes fiercer than her impossibly perfect curls that reached her waist. Emily worked two jobs to stay afloat, but you'd never hear her utter a grumble. When I mean stay afloat, I only mean in her heart. She was a world-renowned biologist focusing primary overseas on, her favorite, big cats' settlement in Africa. With all the chaos in her world, yet, here she sat across the table from me when I needed her.

When she got up to handle a few business calls, one could see ogling from all the men in the club as her hips sashayed away. I stifled a snort into my beer, very unladylike; it was that way whenever she went. I bet her military tank of a husband would kick their asses. I noticed my drink was running low, and I didn't want to ruin my buzz. So, I snatched up my bag and headed to the bar to order me another. The music was blaring and it drowned out all the nonsense in my mind.

I didn't feel my worse that night, but certainly not my best. I hadn't lost all my hair yet, although others voiced that I should get it over with. Instead, I cut it little by little; _they_ said it could make the transition _smoother_. Or some other bullshit like that. I'd lose my hair on my own terms, so I went out, got it cut, and dyed: a beautiful navy with it barely brushing my shoulders as it framed my face. I would enjoy my hair for as long as I could.

And Emily took the opportunity to find me a lovely dress for the night. Simplistic but it _did_ give me confidence. I sure didn't have an excess of that, now a days. Who would have thought a little black cocktail dress with a lace back would raise this woman's spirits… or was that the spirits, ha? If anyone back home had seen me, I doubt wholeheartedly they wouldn't for the life of them recognize me.

A horrible smack of someone's nearby palm on the wood bar-top flung me back to reality as I glanced to the left. A big burly bugger was clogging up my vision. He was leaning in, too horribly close, and smelled of E-cigs and cheap cologne. You can put lipstick on a pig, but all it will ever be is a **pig**. I could physically feel my nose shriveling up and running away as it screamed bloody hell. I swallowed a disgusting cough that wanted to crawl up my throat as I attempted to step back for fresh air. The damn brute put his filthy hand on my arm, "Where do you think you're going, pretty thing?" OH, you have _got_ to be kidding me. I couldn't let this guy ruin my rare good mood, so I tried to yank my arm away but the douchebag thought he could grab onto me tighter.

I saw the brown arch of the bartender's eyebrow reach for the skies, but I didn't need anyone's help and I wasn't going to start asking for it now, "Aye. Sir Douche A-lot, let go of me, will ya? Before you ruin my good mood and I beat the shit out of you."

Boy, you would have thought no one had ever called him "Sir Douche A-lot" before. He didn't take too kindly to that because the hand fell from my arm, snaked around my waist, and stayed _dangerously_ low. He dragged me against him, and I was shoved into plastic muscles created by strawberry protein shakes. I was damn near forced to throw up. I didn't believe the smell could get _worse._ I decided my anger was more fun to focus on than that god-awful odor. However, before my favorite frat guy, Dave, behind the bar could step in, or I could…

A mighty hand slapped down on the Ugly Hulk's shoulder and spun him around. I tumbled back, _finally_ , out of the jerk's grasp. Then I not only heard, but _saw_ the earth-shattering crunch of the guy's bones in his face concave when the new comer's fist collided with it. The mountain of a boy, playing pretend in a man's body, came crashing down. I stepped aside, and I guess the guy decided to take a nap in the middle of the dance floor. He was out like a damn light. I admit, at first, I was a little scared… because if this new guy could knock that kind of human experiment out, it could only mean trouble for me. If this new guy had the same blatant lack of thinking like the one before him…

 _But,_ the man behind that wicked hit wasn't much taller than me. Even in heels with a normal height of 5'4", he could have only a few inches on me. He was in some loose-fitting jeans and a deep blue button up. Almost, the same shade as my hair. The jeans, however, didn't leave much to the imagination. On the contrary, they _definitely_ clung to all the right places and those muscles weren't discouraged at all under those rolled up sleeves. And my defender had stunning brown eyes, rich as the finest mahogany, and stubble as if it were perfectly shaped by the Gods themselves. He had the kind of looks that, I'm sure, got him into all kinds of trouble with the ladies. He wasn't European but wasn't entirely American either. A touch of something across the water. I was stunned, for obvious reasons, until I noticed that he was out of breath and I couldn't stop a chuckle. My mind screamed to show my gratefulness for him having the gall to stop what could have gotten out of hand quickly. I never failed to get myself into trouble, I groaned, thankfully Emily wasn't around. She'd kill me.

I cleared my throat to not speak like mush mouth to the hero. I extended my hand, more confidently than I gave myself credit in the presence of such a magnificent piece of art, "Thank you."

He didn't take it. I would bet he didn't even notice my hand. He was still looking down on the child with a busted face curled up on the floor. Was a bar fight _new_ for him? His appearance and muscles argued against that case, but there was surprise in those brown eyes. I wanted to ask, but I heard the anxious call of my name and turned on my heels completely forgetting what had only just transpired.

Emily explained she had to take off, something about Dean getting some leave, but would be back soon. A week or two at the most, she promised. She ushered in a thousand apologies but I reassured her I wasn't a child. There was _no_ way I was telling Em about the Mountain; it would force her to have no choice but to stay in her twisted mind. I could find my own way home, no reason to worry her. I told her how much I appreciated tonight. My best friend wrapped her arms around me for, as always, a comforting hug and dashed off.

I contemplated having a few more drinks, but another hour had already passed, and the run-in had deterred me from staying any longer after Emily had excused herself. I gathered my stuff and thought that it would be better if I snuck out the back door. Knowing the owner and all, there wasn't any argument from the staff, plus it would save me from seeing Sir Douches A-lot again that night.

I hadn't expected a damn fight to be going on right outside the rear entrance. There was a hurdle of giant blockheads screaming and thrashing all about like a flock of seagulls. My gut told me to tuck my chin down, rush past them, and ignore their squawking… but that was before I saw Sir Douche A-lot among them. I knew he couldn't be up to any good, and stupidly, I thought it was of my responsibility.

However, I really shifted into high gear when I realized who the stupid excuse for men where surrounding: Mister brown-eyed knight. My heels clinked against the gravel, as I ran, my hand digging into my bag frantically, until my black fingernails wrapped the hilt of my gun. _Before_ , I had planned for the Academy but was discharged for obvious reasons. That didn't mislead my heart as for what it believed to be my rightfully place in society, so, I ran with purpose.

I stopped right behind them, out of breath from years of unashamed lack of training. They didn't even notice my erratic huffing, and I couldn't locate my defender among their testosterone-filled bodies. My eyes flashed from person to person but my eyes couldn't see him. I prayed he was still alive. I might have been _slightly_ ill-rational when I flung my gun into the air in that back-alley way and pulled the trigger. It _did_ stop them _and_ I got to witness a bunch of "men" piss their pants.

"Get the hell out of here, or the next one will be in your ugly faces." I ordered, meaning business. I wasn't afraid to hold it to their chests until the cops got there.

I couldn't doddle on how I could have _easily_ been arrested for countless offenses: criminal threat of bodily injury, reckless endangerment, misuse of a handgun… the list goes on and on, really. Wouldn't the Chief love that? But damn, I have never seen "men" run so fast other than the track team competitions in high-school. I wanted to snicker and make fun… but what those idiots left behind was a true man folded like a beach chair with his nose in his hands. My eyes couldn't avoid the blood splattered jeans.

I stuffed my gun away and reached down to tap his shoulder with care. Thankfully, he didn't flinch. I worried he would be afraid of me. I mean, I did just discharge a firearm not even 5 feet from him in the city limits nonetheless! Dad is going to kill me, I screamed.

Focus Nikki, he is bleeding for God's sake. I crouched down, deliberately not getting too close, "Hey, can you hear me? Are you alright? I'm going to get someone, ok? Stay right here. I'll be right back with help." I shot back up with my mind, for once, focused. I was about to run back inside when a seemingly small, yet, firm hand wrapped around my wrist.

" _Don't._ I'm good." The words came out a little wet, and I reminded myself that I am not of the squeamish type. I begged for myself to stay together, but I wanted to panic. I _hate_ blood. It probably appeared like more blood than it really was, my mind promised… I didn't feel uncomfortable being near him so I let my wrist stay in his possession and hovered over the gravel in front of him.

"I feel so damn bad, let me get a look at your nose. My mother was a nurse." I urged, and a first, he seems reluctant. Then, both hands fall away, " _Thank God._ " I hadn't broken God's gift to humanity. I sigh and fall back on my butt with relief. Lifting my face toward the night sky and laughing with ease. The skin on his nose was cracked, don't get me wrong, it was a nasty cut. As, if one of those mobster rings sliced across the bridge of his nose. Nothing a little pop of the nose and a band aid couldn't fix.

"It's broken, isn't it?" He is dying to know and my smart-ass just can't ever take the day off. I don't even give him the courtesy of holding eye contact. The stars are too bright tonight.

It falls from my lips with complete seriousness, "Crushed to pieces. They are gonna have to saw it clean off, and give you another one," I shrug like we are arguing over the price of movie ticket at the matinée, "You're ok with a rubber one, right?"

He looked like a child when told Santa isn't real and I maintained that emotionless expression until it was simply too much. Those big brown eyes swollen, as if the world was falling apart, were the worse, but the flies would have _loved_ swarming that gaping mouth. My lips cracked into a smile and I fell out laughing.

"Oh, great! We got a damn comedian, folks!" He spats out a little blood swishing around his mouth, and I can tell he is completely upset. I went too far, just like always.

I backtrack quickly, but not quick enough, "Look, I'm—"

He uses the wall to help himself off the hard ground, and wipes a hand across his lips. It comes back red, " _Forget it._ You better be glad I'm not suing your ass."

My defensive wall comes rolling up and I give in to, what my father refers to as, _the gunk_ , "Hey! No one told you to sucker punch douche-McGillicuddy then get your ass handed to you by his boy band!" It was as if I had been struck by lightning from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet, I was electrified. First time I felt that way about an argument, if I recall correctly. However, I really should keep my mouth shut at times, though… this wasn't one of those times.

"Excuse me? I came to **your** rescue!"

"Who said I was in the need of saving? Mmmh? Do I look like a damsel in distress? Look around, jack. I just saved your ass!" I didn't care for a response; I was fuming and the quicker I got away: the better. I wanted to strangle the pretty boy with bare hands. I shoved down my dress and stormed off toward the promising street lights, "If I had a drink to throw on you, I would. The pretty ones are always the worst!" I screamed over my shoulder but didn't dare lose my pace.

I couldn't call a taxi soon enough, get the me the hell away from here! The prettiest ones must also be the dumbest, 'cause my "rescuer" followed after me. Stupid, _stupid,_ man, "Now you're just asking for it." I warned. I kept my back to him, I sure as hell wasn't afraid of the likes of him. I had seen worlds meaner and certainly uglier.

I noticed and filed away his almost reach out to grab ahold of my arm, not angrily, but out of instinct, "Do you know who I am?" He stepped back and inquired, and it only irked me more.

"I don't give a damn who you are," Again, I should have kept my mouth sealed shut, but I spun back. Naively, and with a touch of pretentious, I deemed it necessary to jab a pointed nail into his bare chest. My fingers slipped right between the opening in his shirt after it came undone during the fight. I put on a stern face and ignored the feeling of his warm skin under my finger, "Whether you helped me or not, which you didn't, you outta leave me alone, which you aren't and stop being so damn entitled, which you most certainly shouldn't. I could have handle the dick wad myself," I hadn't cursed this much in years, but this guy had a nasty effect on me and my way of speaking, "So _thank you_ but why don't you take a hint from the other jackoffs and back the hell up."

I _loved_ that shock expression on the smug asshole's face. I adored that I still had the power to stand my own ground. I relished in my newly regained confidence… until, he _wobbled_. I couldn't believe my eyes; he stumbled side to side and was about to smash his pretty head on the concrete. I immediately dropped my bag and grabbed ahold of him. We swayed but I mustered all the strength I could to keep us standing.

I really ought to start working out again, I thought furiously to myself for struggling so much keeping this guy on his feet. He was out cold, and curse my weak heart for instantly caring. I groaned, "Now, what am I supposed to do with you, huh?" I asked to the empty air. It answered with a crackle of thunder… then a damn downpour following it up. I screamed a little of my frustration out, but kept one arm around his very _tight_ waist… FOCUS NIKKI. And the other arm pulling his arm down as it hung from around my neck. It was a balancing act, truly.

I couldn't put him down to search for some identification or address for the fear of not being able to get him back up on this slippery concrete. I didn't trust anyone else to help me handle him. Plus, I will admit it was partly my fault for getting the dude into this mess. Had he lost too much blood? Did he hit his head and I not know it? The fears ran crazy inside my mind. I hailed a cab with a very loosely strung together plan of attack, "Looks like you're coming with me, big guy."

A strange man from a bar in my apartment; dad is going to kill me. The snobby and sarcastic part of my brain answered with snippy laughter: _Are you serious? What are you 16?_ Great, now I couldn't get my own mind to shut up. "I'm too tired for all this crap," I muffled screamed into my hands.

I left him in a wet crumple mess on my couch and ran to change into more effective, dry, clothes to check his wounds. I wasn't gone too long; my frantic mind wouldn't let me stay away. I flung on a tank top and some shorts. I'd worry about showering later. If this guy was really hurt, I need to get him some medical attention. No matter how much I may have learned from my mother. I still wasn't a trained nurse.

I slung open the medicine cabinets under the counter and raked out with an arm all that I could possibly need. I stumbled back into the living room with, literally, an arm full. He hadn't move. I don't know if that was a good or bad sign. I carefully and quietly dropped the first-aid makeshift kit onto my wooden floor, tucked my knees under me, and gently pulled him to lay face-up on the couch. In his unconscious state, there was a meaningful grunt and I took it as a warning to be careful.

Up close, the nose didn't look too gruesome, but man, was he a bleeder. "Put your big girl panties on, Nik." I commanded myself. First, I disinfected the area, checked for any major damage, and thankfully there was none. To be on the safe side, I put a small splint on both sides of the nose after I _gently_ popped it back into place. Lastly, I applied a few, self-taught, _tiny_ stiches to close the gap of skin. "They will dissolve on their own in a week or two. Three weeks at the most, nothing to stress about, pretty boy." I reassured the unconscious strange man on my burgundy couch. I wanted to slap a hand to my forehead.

However, this is where the rather difficult part came in. I had to make sure, without a doubt, he had only passed out because of his nose or exhaustion… I had to inspect his body, I groaned, this was horrific! "Why do all the good-looking ones have to be such ignorant blockheads?" Boy, if he had heard that, I'd be in even more trouble. Sure, it was one thing if he were pretty and not an evident jerk wad, but to know his true nature made him so less attractive. I was thankful for the button up so I wouldn't be forced to completely strip him.

Thankfully, I found no other damage: external or internal. Barely any defense wounds, other than the one set of busted knuckles from the punch that set this horrible night into motion. I disinfected and bandaged that as well, twice for good measure, but found no evidence of a fight. So, he hadn't fought back?

I slid into my chair across the room and with thoughtful eyes, I watched him. It seemed like he was sleeping soundly, and I hated myself for being fascinated by this strange man. Jerk or not, I didn't even know his name, yet he reminded me of an old song that held a locked chest of memories. I felt like I _almost_ knew him, "That's impossible!" I would remember an entitled prick… I would, absolutely, remember a face or body like his too.

Oh, what am I? A blushing catholic school girl? "I need to find his license to get him off my couch and back to his place." I couldn't hop up this time, I moved slower than before. I wouldn't dare admit I was outright sad to see him go… but maybe, I wasn't ready to. Not just yet. He had offered a helping hand even if I hadn't asked for it.

I rolled my own eyes at myself, and decided it best to shut my mind off. At least, this way I could get some peace and quiet. The only viable place to store a wallet would be in his jeans, and thankfully, I found it in one of his pockets easily. I flipped open the black leather wallet with some sort of initial embellishment on the outside but I ignored it. My patience was wearing thin, and it got impossibly worse when I found his identification. My fingers gripped the plastic impossibly tighter.

"This cannot be happening! I want no part in this! _No!_ Shit, I'm in so much trouble… No one can know about tonight."

The clack of phone keys in a dark apartment and a hushed, yet frantic, voice whispers into the receiver, "Look, I don't want trouble. 6 am, you'll find him outside the building of 1804 Park Ave… Yes, the one downtown. He isn't hurt, but he needs some rest. I'll take him there before he can wake up. It will be up to you to get him, after this, none of this is on me, you hear me?"

"He has already been here twice this week—"

" _Peter,_ don't fret. It will blow over soon, I promise." All I got was a huff of disbelief, and the red head scooting further down the bar. I saw him moving about in my peripheral vision, but I made sure to avoid his intense blue eyes. Peter was certainly easy on the eyes… but was also the same guy to shove two chopsticks up under his lips to get a laugh out of me. A lovable little brother type, utterly platonic, he just happened to be a _really_ good-looking dork.

"He sent his assistant here this morning; you just missed her." I bit down on my straw with a clank of my front teeth. Crap, _really?_ Finally, and defeatedly, I glanced up from my numerous paperwork and books. It was a never-ending pile of work to get done. I rubbed my temples and Peter watched every little movement intently, "I see you changed your hair, again."

I stuck my tongue out rather childishly, but Peter grinned as he resumed wiping down the bar-top. In an unstable situation it was best this way, I coaxed my restless mind. "Can't find a bluenette without blue hair," I shrugged, and my blonde faux locks bounced, "I won't be scared off my favorite bar… or my favorite bar owner." I winked, and as I hoped, that toothy grin of his came running back. Peter stepped back over and lifted a glass up to the light to remove its pesky water spots. I placed a warm hand on his arm to gather his full attention, " _Thank you…_ I am really sorry to put this on you."

Peter shrugged like what else had I expected? Peter and I met one faithful day, a while back, when I was looking for a place to relax and drink some coffee early one morning. Instead, I stumbled in on an empty nightclub with the owner doing stock at the bar. The rest was history; several days a week I come to unwind and keep him company, and a few nights a month he treats me with new cocktails if I come out. Peter wasn't completely aware of what happened last week, because he had been out at a business dinner. I had told Peter only what he needed to know and he understood it was in my best interest if the staff had no recollection of a young woman with blue hair being at this place of business last week… _or ever._ Peter in the utter sense, didn't care what had happened, I had asked for his help and he would do nothing less.

Across town, at the same time I was conversing with Peter, I was fading further and further from _someone's_ mind, "You do not have any identifiable information to make it easier to locate this… _imaginary_ … person?"

"No! Ok? I hit my damn head too hard. All I remember: this massive dude putting his hands on a girl at the bar and I clocked him. Hence my hand," He held it up with pride, but his words came out nasally from the stinted nose, "Then she ran away, till she found me outside later that night. I can't even remember what she was wearing or what she looked like. All I know is she had blue hair, _I swear_ , Melissa."

" _Great._ Let me get this right, you want to sue a gothic tween for beating up some jugheads for you? Wonderful… Or worse, this 'she' could be a man! This individual did have the physical capability to carry you. What were you thinking to get into a bar fight? The press would have a field day! I can see the headlines now: ' _Local Girl Sued for Saving Famous Vlogger_ '!" Melissa, a straight business woman with all her collars buttoned at the neck, if you know what I mean, swiped her recently manicured hand through the air as if hovering over the headline itself.

"I didn't say I was going to sue her!" He still hadn't dropped his hand, but he did stop waving it around to inspected it thoroughly, while mumbling to himself, "It had to be nasty to clean up. She took care of me… And I was no better than those boys putting their hands on her. Look at my nose! She performed a low-key surgery on me and I screamed like a lunatic at her."

" _Yes,_ and you're lucky I didn't find you skinned in a bathtub somewhere with her using your face as a mask to rob a bank." He grunted, but Melissa didn't lighten up, "Leave the poor girl alone, could you? I don't want to hear anymore of this. I am your assistant, not your matchmaker. If we do not hurry, you are going to miss the returning flight to Los Angeles, Mr. Fisher."


	2. Chapter 2

_One year later…_

" _Ms_ **.** _Nikki!_ "

" **Get down from there!"**

"It's not worth it, dearie!"

" _ **Don't jump!**_ "

"What are they talking about? Why would I jump?" I mumbled as I pulled myself up another level higher, toward the sun, toward the freedom I dreamed of.

My hands were cold, but my heart was so warm for once. My restless heart had gotten the taste of freedom and it wasn't going to stop till it was satisfied. **I am a grown woman,** I told myself. I was long past the years of "eat this", "drink this", "switch out your meds", "get changed for radiation". I wanted to think I was better than my past or my faults, I really wasn't.

I was constantly patronizing myself: the nurses didn't act that way. It was all in my mind. A made-up world where I had someone, something, to blame. In the real world, the nurses were all, if not most, kind hearted women, some even the same age as I, but that's how it sounded to a 25-year-old. I had my whole life ahead of me. If I was in a good mood, I'd believe I _still_ did. It had just been a long year. A _long_ year.

My future was up for me to decide, right? I could get married one day. I could travel the world. I could graduate… I mean, _I had_ already completed the requirements for my degree. I just never got around to filling out the paperwork. Hey, somethings had come up.

I chuckled to myself for my lack of ability to keep a straight face at my lame joke. It was almost funny if you thought about it. I hadn't accomplished a lot in my first 24 years, but I was still deeming necessary to find excuses… even after almost finishing yet another round of _treatment_ , if I were to phrase it the way the nurses all did.

" _It's not a big deal, dear. Just a little treatment, if you will."_

I hadn't realized I even mimicked that stupid half-hearted nurse shoulder shrug they gave after they had another long day until my shoulders nestled back down in place. I laughed again aloud and pushed off the next step.

It had been a long few months, and at moments, I was downright, deadbeat tired. Tired of eating crappy hospital food. Tired of being locked up for hours on end to that damn IV. Tired of the white plaster walls. Tired of the looks I got from all the elderly. Tired of being away from my friends and family. Tired of not being in my own room. Tired of fighting.

 _Na_ , I won't give up. I had made it this far, after all. I would be foolish to turn back—

"Butthead! Get your butt off this roof **RIGHT THIS SECOND**."

 _That_ attempt at a thundering voice. I stalled instinctively. _Don't move, they sense movement_. After a few moments of trying to think of an escape plan but finding none, I spun back with care. I made sure to let a huge grin appear, hoping to prevent the punishment to come. Or at least cushion it.

"Well, hello daddy dearest!"

I didn't climb down yet; I wasn't ready. I turned my back to him and the nurses again. There were still a few moments of daylight left, instead of following his order, I eased down on the icy roofing and crossed my legs out in front of me. I finally turned back to him for a second. My dad seemed to have aged drastically in the last year, I couldn't help but blame myself. He hadn't lost his hair quite yet, but it sure had grayed out. My father shoulders were back and his arms crossed. He meant business, and his wooden cane was tapping obsessively against the roof. I huffed and crossed my own arms, like the stubborn child I still was at times.

"I'm not coming down," I said.

He pitched the bridge of his nose and massaged the skin there.

" _Nicole…_ "

A chill ran screaming up my spine, no matter how old I'd grow, he was my father. It was a constant internal battle: my dad versus my heart. I sighed but had yet to climb down. I looked over my shoulder at the disappearing sunset. The red and orange splash sky filled my sight. On one of the tallest buildings that downtown Chicago had to offer was the perfect place to watch it. I let the sunset fall completely off the edge of the world and relentlessly, I moved back. I stood up, brushed down my gown, and out of habit, I flipped my hair back over my shoulder.

My father noticed the gesture and grimaced. The anger he tried to convey in his stiff posture, washed away in a flood of momentary empathy for his only child.

His jaw relaxed, and he called out, "Let's grab some dinner, butthead."

The nurses around him raised their wagging pointer fingers to argue, but all he had to do was glance at them with those sharp animalistic eyes that dared anyone to try and stop him. And he wondered where I got it from, I laughed inwardly and a tad bit aloud.

"They called me **frantic**. Screaming you were trying another 'suicide attempt'."

I couldn't help the milkshake that almost left the solitude of my nose in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. It had been a treasured memory, to grab a milkshake as we went out to dinner. Something my dad made up when I was young.

"They always call it that. I bet it was the new girl, Jeana or something, that caused a panic," I argued in my defense when I regained my composure. My father sighed again. "You sure do that a lot now," I commented impulsively.

My father had always been, in a lack of other words, my confidant. He never failed to have my back and support me. My father was absolutely a huge part of me still being alive today and not referring to all the times he physically saved my life as a young rebel girl with a daring heart. In the simplest form: I had no fear. Which ended up with me on roofs and a lot of other high places, or in bad places as a naïve girl who didn't know any better.

I remember one instance after my fifth birthday. I wanted to have a birthday party and had invited all the kids from school, only to have not even one show. My dad had rented a giant bouncy house and even saddled all our horses for the occasion. After an hour waiting by the front door, my dad pulled me aside to explain something a 5-year-old wasn't old enough to grasp. He was so thoughtful and was careful not to outright hurt my feelings, but I had responded with comprehension he didn't know I possessed. Instead of throwing a fit, which would have been understandable, I asked if he could play in the bouncy house with me. He didn't have to think twice about it, even with a bad knee or two, he crawled right in after me. My father kept me entertained the entire day with my bouncy castle and horses. I forgot about my birthday completely. I thought it as nothing more than a really cool father-daughter-date and I think I preferred it more that way.

Dad looked at me confused for not getting around to finishing my sentence and get lost in dream land without an explanation.

"You know? _The sighing_." I answered with a twirl of my fork in the air.

His eyes softened, but not in a good way. I glanced around the room, trying to find the cause of the change in atmosphere. _Was there something I was missing?_ The air around him grew dramatic in the tiny Chinese restaurant with a fake Buddha looking over his shoulder, intently. I bite back a giggle once I noticed the fat red statue seemingly interested in what my father had to say.

"Nicole, why haven't you finished your treatment?" he asked.

I straightened my spine, and pulled together some control to refrain from speaking out disrespectfully. My father had always been the type to cut right to the point, no matter if it poked the bear in the process. And that night, he wasn't in the mood for me to beat around the bush and avoid his questions.

'I'll finish it when I'm ready' was what I wanted to stubborn scream out, but that would mean unnecessary money that we did not possess. I could never be that insensitive to my blood.

"…I'm not ready to go home."

I avoided _those_ brown judgy eyes, looking anywhere else I could: the waiter at the next table over, the little bell over the entrance, the pop out of the register. His fork clanked against the ceramic, ill-decorated, plate. I twisted the napkin into tight knots under the tablecloth.

" _Why not?_ Aren't you excited to see everyone? That ghost town is fighting to throw a party to welcome you home! It's been a trying year for us both and we can finally move back! I've been receiving calls nonstop. My phone is ringing off the hook all day: the mayor, several businesses, Emily and even… Bishop—"

I jumped up and slapped down my crumpled napkin. My hip bumped against the table in a wild sprint to get out of the restaurant. I needed the cold, frost-filled air off Lake Michigan that came along with a dark night here. I needed that punch in the gut to remind me where I was in _this_ moment, in this time. I needed the ice bit, frigged, air seeping into my winter jacket to drag my ass back into reality… not four years in the past.

My father didn't come outside looking for me. He did the mature thing to give me a chance to catch my breath and not pester me with his ability to handle any situation better than I. I'd been through a lot in my 25 years and I hate to say, I'd certainly experience more. I hated it for my dad to do the same. My father might have a better grasp on this, but in the end, it was my reality. _Not his._

I took a deep breath, shuffled things back into their rightfully place inside my mind, locked the door to 'em, and spun on my heels. The door opened with a tiny chime, and I gently pulled back my chair with my father's wise eyes on me. I half-heartedly smiled, but as soon as it appeared, it was gone again. It was not the time to act like the little child I no longer was.

"I'm going to finish up later this week, but I have chosen to stay here."

My father's downcast eyes shot up, "Nicole—"

I could feel the fight trying to build. My father believed he knew best, and that gave him the perceived power to cross boundaries that he shouldn't.

" **No.** I get to decide. Not you. I like my life here and I have no reason to go back to that hell hole," I said.

"Now, wait a minute—"

"Enough, Allan!" I slapped my hand down on the table, my rings dinged against the wood. "If you want to go, _**go.**_ I can take care of myself. I renewed the lease on my place here. I'm staying, dad and that's that."

Allan Dill, a man with more gray hair than black now, made sure to take care on the massive steps especially with his cane. He wasn't smiling, he rarely could now, he had gotten older and mighty fast. All the years flew by for him, but there wasn't a damn thing my father regretted. He had spent much of his life in the Navy but the minute he found out my mother was pregnant, he walked away from everything. There is no telling what he gave up for me even before I took my first breath.

Each stone step seemed like a mountain to him, but he didn't let that show. He had always been a proudful man. When Allan finally got to the top, feeling like the jogging scene from Rocky, he rang a doorbell with a Victoria sound to it. Allan waited patiently for the mahogany Tuscany inspired door to swing open. It had a beautiful glass pane with silver metal swirls covering it so he couldn't see inside until a middle-aged woman came to the door with a scowl on her once pretty face.

"How may I help you?" she asked. Her tiny hand clinching the doorframe.

"I have a meeting to see Mr. Fisher, ma'am."

A southern man through and through my father. In Texas, he was still a high-profile marketing agent. He travelled non-stop, but it was offset for me when he'd come home to our ranch. I never saw him without a cowboy hat until he was handed the high-profile clients.

"Mr. Martin, I presume."

My father bowed and tipped his imaginary hat. "At your service."

" _Melissa._ Please, come in." She stepped back and let the door fully open.

The woman led my father deeper into the beautiful home until they came to the living room and she asked him to take a seat. Allan went for the comfy couch with extra room instead of the "professional" chairs that looked worth more than our old property. Melissa excused herself without a second glance.

My father was only just getting settled when a young man came in. The youngster, as my dad would had said, who truthfully was already over 30, was adorned in the finest suit he'd ever seen. Upon his entrance, dad shot up and even knocked over his cane by doing so to greet him.

The youngster could have responded rudely or poked fun at the older feeble man but instead he bent down in his luxury suit and gathered up my father's cane carefully. He smiled and handed it back to my father.

" _Please._ Take a seat."

My father did just that, and sunk back on the couch. Dad's face was flushed and discolored, but he played cool. My dad was the best business man I'd ever met, and he had decades on the job, but it wasn't business that had managed to get under his skin.

"Allan? Sorry, Mr. Allan? Is that better?" The youngster unbuttoned his suit jacket with ease and a flick of the wrist as he sat into his favorite chair across from my father.

"Call me Allan," Allan said.

" _Mark._ Pleased to meet you; I'm glad I finally got you all the way out to L.A., it's been a long time coming."

"Likewise."

The two men spent the next hour or two or three speaking of anything but business. A supposedly 30-minute chat for Mark to get keen on the idea of meeting with the higher ups of my dad's marketing company. It was noticeable they didn't keep up the formal BS but even switched to more personal topics without even trying. My dad could become anyone's best friend. Strangers loved him; that damn smile was infectious.

By the end of it, Mark was completely on board for the upcoming meeting and the two had even a few drinks. My dad, with the help of his friend, Jack, had the courage to speak about something that had been on his mind since he found out about this face-to-face meeting with Mark for months.

"Mark, do you care if I get a tad _blunt?_ "

"I do enjoy a good dose of your brutal honesty," Mark said and set down his glass, practically on the edge of his seat and a bouncing leg. "Lay it on me, Allan."

"My daughter has cancer."

"Holy shit."

Any onlooker would have seen how uncomfortable Mark became. I wouldn't quite call them friends but they certainly weren't strangers. It should have been common knowledge for the two, but Mark wasn't even aware Allan had a daughter. It wasn't like I was a hot topic but the awkward tension could have strangled anyone. Mark twisted his fingers and squeezed until they turned red.

"I never knew. I'm sorry."

" _Don't be._ She's a fighter," Allan said and took another drink. My father was definitely a strong man or at least had a great poker face. "This isn't her first time around either and I'm afraid it won't be her last." Mark tried to swallow his discomfort and wipe away the sweat by playing around with his collar. "But that isn't the point, Mark, I have a favor to ask of you."

Unfortunately for my father something had suddenly rubbed Mark the wrong way. The façade he had built up from years of being taken advantage of threw itself up, and it caused Mark to respond irrationally.

"What is it? You must know I don't have the cure for cancer."

Thankfully for Mark, my dad's feathers weren't easily ruffled. "Of course not, we both know you're not too bright for something like that."

Mark decided enough was enough, stood up and rebuttoned his jacket. "I think it is time for you to leave, Allan."

My father stood up, quickly, and smacked the bottom of his cane against Mark's perfect marble floor. "Oh no, you don't. Hear me out, would ya? Before you get your panties in a wad. Haven't you ever cared about someone so much that you would do everything you could for them? Or are you that heartless? That wasn't the feeling I got from you, Mark."

Mark sighed, and took his seat, but he was clearly uncomfortable. However, Mark waited for my father to speak out of respect.

"Look, I'm going to be honest: she has been a fan of yours for a long time, before the business thing. I know you're used to people saying that, but I'm not asking for money or anything like that… _Last time_ she went to a talk of yours, in between treatments, and her results _skyrocketed_." My father emphasized with a wave of his wrinkly hand. "She passed all her tests with flying colors. For a moment, I had my little girl back."

"I don't understand what you are asking of me, Allan."

"Meet her. Just once. I hope when she gets the chance to meet you _face to face_ she'll do even better than before. Mark, this treatment has the high possibility to kill her this time around. Her poor body can't handle it again. I gotta show her she is not alone. I'll do anything; I beg of you."

Mark stumbled over his words and couldn't get out anything of worth for a few moments. He rubbed a hard down his freshly shaven face and massaged his temples then glanced back up.

"What about you? You're the father, how could you let a stranger check in on _your_ daughter? Isn't that your job?" Mark asked.

"I am going to do what I can to save my daughter, Mr. Mark."

"What does that even mean?"

Instead of answering a very upset Mark, my father was already half way out the door, wobbling away on his crane. Mark chased after him. An easy pushover and already invested in my father just from the last year of corresponding emails and phone calls. I cannot even begin to describe what relationship they had because my father never told me. I had no idea. I was given no foundation to understand.

"HEY! You can't just walk out after dropping something like _that_ in somebody's lap!" Mark said. He was standing at his doorstep but my father was already half way down the steps.

Thankfully, my father stopped his escape for a moment to turn around with a wicked smile on his face. Mark had played right into his hand, that fool.

"Meet her _once._ If you feel you can still leave, then leave. This will be the last time you hear from me, Mr. Mark. I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _2 months later…_

Sometimes treatment held the potential to leave me a little more queasy and unsteady than I could normally handle. Fortunately for me, I was almost done. Only a few more weeks to go. However, I was thankful for the friendships I created with nurses at the hospital. The kind women there never failed to scavenge together a room for me when it wasn't too busy or overcrowded. It didn't happen too often, but it did happen enough and for that I was grateful.

I barely flopped on the bed, when someone came fumbling into the room. I believed it was a nurse making their rounds or something. I didn't treat it like a big deal. Plus, if I didn't move around too much the dizziness was more tolerable. I didn't bother looking up until the noise in the little room got rowdy and I couldn't relax. I dragged myself up against the frame and noticed the strange man fumbling around my room.

"Excuse me, this is a private room." I had to go and sign paperwork just to get a room for the night or for a few hours. My hand tangled in the cheap sheets and my knees came up.

The stranger had a ridiculous Cubs ballcap, three sizes too big, pulled down over his eyes. It was one of the cheap ones you could get at any corner store, nowhere near authentic. Thrown over the cap was a black hoodie pulled as far down as it could be. The man also had massive, fake, sunglasses nearly covering his whole face. It was laughable. He stuck out like a car in a hay stack.

"Hey! Could you please leave?" I asked.

The man uttered a bogus apology as he frantically looked over his shoulder as if he were being chased but didn't leave. He kept glancing around the room but never directly at me. My eyes stayed on him, watching any movement to indicate a threat, but nothing happened. The more I stared, the more my familiarity grew. It really wasn't that great of a disguise and I was a fan after all.

Holy shit. Be cool, Nikki. _Be cool._ However, I never failed to make a fool of myself.

"Make-A-Wish is on the 3rd floor," I said. It didn't surprise me someone would request him; he was well known around the globe. I glanced down and made out a cane in his hands; my mouth was open before I realized better. " _Whoa,_ is that a cane? That's creepy." _You idiot._

Finally, the sunglasses lifted in the direction of my bed and I saw my reflection in them. No more hair. No wig to try and hide it either. Just a giant cue ball of a head, discolored and imperfect.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Nikki."

"That can't be right. How old are you, anyways?"

"Whoa. That's just rude, _dude_. Didn't your ma raise you to never ask a woman that?" My southern accent seeping back through. It popped up more times than not when I started to get riled up.

"'A woman'? You're like twelve."

" **HEY!** I don't come into your hospital room and insult you, do I? Get out." Disrespectful twit and I empathized it with my middle finger up in the air.

The man lunged at me, but I couldn't get up. My body was still impacted, tired. I'd never say weak. He demanded me to show ID to prove who I was, but he came at me swinging the cane around like trying to hit a baseball hidden somewhere.

"HELL NO! Get out of here!" I wanted to get across the room to my gun stashed in my bag but my body couldn't move. So, I threw out an arm to keep him from getting any closer. I thank God, he had been across the room and not right up on me when it all went to shit. It gave more time for someone to show up.

"I just need to see it!"

" **SECURITY!** "

Thankfully, two guards were already close by, just down the hall. They had picked up on the yelling and were heading to my door before I even called. The pair came barreling in and dragged the crazy man out as he thrashed around like a dirty dog who didn't want to be bathed. Then, I was given the silence to wonder if it was possible to cough up a lung from the panic attack.

After that, I didn't care to stay overnight at the hospital anymore. I managed to always get back home even if I struggled. I noticed the pity glances I received, but I tried to ignore them. I just had to get through it for another week or two.

Ron and Hank had tossed the guy out, told him never to come back, but didn't happen to, in the chaos, get his name. In any case, I did not feel safe there. I convinced myself it wasn't who I originally believed it was. I had to be seeing things. The medication had messed my brain up. It was just some creep who stumbled into the wrong room who happened to look a lot like a famous guy. Research says there are seven people in the world who look exactly like you, that's all.

I had managed not to end back there for several weeks, a month almost, until I was ordered by the doc for a check-up and would be kept overnight. I suppose, it's easy to say I wasn't keen on the idea, but I knew it was important. My nerves were already high. I was jittery and uncomfortable. I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I lost it when someone knocked on the door and came in without me granting permission.

A chill ran up my spine. The _same_ stature and overall look. An identical cane as before. Even though, he was in jeans this time around and a nice shirt. There was no doubt about it. My body felt better than the last time this guy tried me. I leapt up upon his entry with the bed between us. I was ready for war. I didn't even focus on the man's appearance. Only thing that mattered: same crazy as before.

I pointed my finger at him and demanded him to leave. "What is it with you? Get out and leave me the hell alone."

He put one hand up as if he didn't mean any offense, but kept the other on the cane so he wouldn't have to drop it. " _Look!_ I apologize, we got off on the wrong foot."

"No shit. Get out! _Security!_ "

"Listen to me for a moment! I'm not going to hurt you! _Damnit_ —I know _Allan_. OK? Calm down!"

My finger suddenly felt as if it were a slender block of ice, but I was still cautious. I had no reason to trust the likes of him, but if it concerned my father I was always invested. I dropped my extended hand onto the bed and supported my weight. "You knew my dad?"

The mood turned somber, the man straightened and dropped his hands down by his side.

"Yes."

I could tell he wasn't lying by the look on his face. There wasn't an arrogant smile or trickery in his brown eyes. I exhaled, and eased myself onto the bed but didn't dare take my eyes off him. I asked him to take a seat in the chair along the wall and he did. I didn't know what to say, but if the guy had a reason to be here, he should speak first.

"Yes, I know your father. I know Allan, very well. Where is he? I've been looking all over for him. He hasn't been answering my calls. I was afraid I upset him, and I have something for him," he said.

I knew instantly it had to do with the cane proudly placed carefully over his long legs. It looked expensive and handcrafted. It was almost funny how I had bought dad a personalized cane before. _Almost._

"So, you don't know…" My eyes must have given me away, but he needed confirmation so I said it aloud. I had to repeat the same line more often than I'd care to admit. A wave of guilt crashed into me and I could feel the water climbing. Soon I wouldn't be able to breathe. "Dad died."

The man flopped back on the couch, rested his head on the back of the chair, and sighed for a long minute. I couldn't believe those brown eyes even sparkled with water coming into them. I could tell he was around my age, but he had stress lines on his face that tried to make him older than he really was.

"How long?" he asked after a few long minutes of silence.

"About two months ago."

" _Shit._ "

I grunted. Now that I could see the man's face without those ridiculous glasses messing it up, he was attractive. Not just some threatening drunk that happened to stumble into my hospital room. I let the man take it in, respectfully, when it clicked for me, an imaginary light bulb above my bald head. It was a wonder I didn't fly through the ceiling.

 _Mark Fisher._ The Mark Fisher. Vlogger extraordinaire. A seemingly innocent boy from a no-where town making it big out there in the city of angels. At first, someone who recorded his travels and thoughts for a modest public. Then, overnight, a playboy millionaire with a thriving franchise and thousands of gorgeous women literally throwing themselves at his feet.

" _Ho—ly_ shit." My stupid laxed tongue coming to my rescue and voicing my most intimate thoughts.

The man looked up. His rich brown eyes were suddenly calculating and quite frankly, mean. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't you? Allan never mentioned he had a mentally incapable daughter."

It would come later, that Mark was only snappy because of his failure not to find out something so… _sad_ about someone he considered a friend. Nor would I have cared, it was my father that had passed away after all.

" _Oh_ , so you _are_ capable of still throwing insults; famous or not. _Hm._ Guess everyone is an asshole; only difference is you're an asshole with money." I scoffed and crossed my arms as I looked away. "If you do not have any further business, I'd like you to leave. My father's client or not."

I had no idea what exactly about this guy rubbed me wrong. Was it his smart-ass remarks? His arrogant prance? Or was it those fierce eyes that looked like they never needed anyone else? They do always say "never meet your heroes". I suppose that resonated with me in that moment. I realized quickly: I didn't like the guy in front of me. My idol or not; he was a jerk and I wanted him _gone_ asap.

"Now wait a minute—"

Another knock and we both found ourselves asking each other if we were expecting a visitor.

"Come in." I shot a look at Mark. "See that's how an adult asks permission to enter a room that isn't theirs." Mark rolled his eyes. I glanced back at the door. "Ah! Mister Watson!"

Mr. Watson entered with a comforting smile on his face as he looked from Mark and back at me with a questioning glint in his crystal blue eyes. He bowed dramatically in his designer suit beside my bed. "How are doing my lovely Nikki? Looking breathtaking as always!"

Mr. Watson had been my father's attorney and close friend. Watson had taken care of all the arrangements following my father's death, personally, even though Watson was a partner in a major law firm in Chicago. Watson could have, easily, handed it off to one of his clerks. Dad and he had been close, so in honor of him, Mr. Watson continued to check-in on me from time to time.

His compliment brought up a smile as it always over the years. "I'm still kicking! What can I do for you today, Mr. Watson? I always enjoy your company, but I know you are a busy man so a visit would not be without reason."

"You would be correct, Ms. Nikki. I have a letter for you."

Mark stood up and bowed without an inkling of the charisma that Mr. Watson possessed. I didn't even look over at him. I didn't want to waste the energy. "I'll be on my way then."

"Good."

Mr. Watson turned toward Mark and the two were sized the other up. Watson corrected his tie and Mark yanked on his collar shirt.

"This letter concerns you as well, Mr. Fisher. Take your seat," Watson said. There was no room for argument.

"You two know each other?" I asked, but Mr. Watson didn't take his eyes off Mark till he sat back down.

I felt the weight in the bottom of my stomach and it grew impossibly heavier when Mr. Watson turned back to put the parcel in my outstretched hand. Scribbled across the top was indeed my father's handwriting and I felt as if I could disappear into thin air. Any legal documents Mr. Watson handled, that could only mean this was something _personal._ I hadn't even opened it yet and I wanted to cry myself to sleep.

I glanced up and Mr. Watson's eyes were warm. Watson said his goodbyes, and with a kiss to my cheek, out the door. Too many thoughts were running through my mind and I was left with no other way to get the answers I wanted so I ripped the envelope open.

 _"Hey munchkin,"_

I could have been reduced to a puddle of tears. I read every word with his smooth voice reading it to me, like a bedtime story from my childhood.

 _"and a hello to you as well, Mr. Fisher."_

Mark's eyes widened. Watson hadn't been lying. I felt as if something was going on that I was not aware of and I didn't care for it. I took note of how my father's "appearance" seemed to humble Mark.

 _"Nicole, please tell Mark how thankful I am for our last meeting and our friendship overall… I know you're still fighting, baby. I know you're kicking ass and taking names. So, keep it up, and I know you'll be fine. But I do have a favor to ask of you, Nicole. I need you to get along with this young man. You could be of use to one another. Now, now. Don't you start with me, Nicole. Take my word for it and do as your father asks, understand? I will be checking in on the two of you. If you do not do as I have asked then consequences will follow. Do not test me. I may be gone but I still know what's good for you._

 _I do love you."_

It took all the self-control in my body not to rip the paper into tiny pieces and throw it out the tallest window I could find. Not only had my late father sic his goons on me, but had the balls to threaten me from the grave to play nice with a client? He had to be insane! How was this the same man from my childhood? The one that put me before all other. The one who picked up and moved across the country because I had asked him to. The one who knew all my dark secrets and loved me despite them.

"He was and still is _bat shit_ crazy!" Mark pushed himself back as far as possible into the chair cushion when I started screaming. I wasn't the only one that wanted to disappear into thin air. "I can't believe it! Crazy! He's crazy!"

There was no doubt about it: this letter was in my father's handwriting, but this had to be a joke! A sick joke. I was irrational, emotional, and a tad bit immature. But when you are alone, your priority must be you and only you. I was the only one left to protect me and that was all I had to go on. It was the only thing to keep me alive. So, I did whatever I could to keep my heart from crumbling.

"Get out! GET OUT! Get out, get out, get out!"

Oddly enough, Mark didn't run straight out that door and never look back. I wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He stood up carefully but his eyes weren't fearful. I almost mistook empathy in them. With the cane still in his hand and a glance back at me from the door, Mark exited the room.

I didn't believe my week could have the power to get any worse, but when Mr. Watson showed up at my home with Mark in tow the very next day. I knew there was no saving it. I wasn't even given a full day to process my own thoughts and my feelings. Yet, it did not take long to realize what my father had done and all the players in his game. I finally understood why Mr. Watson kept randomly popping up over the last two months. Boy, that did not help my anger in the slightest. It didn't help Watson's case that I saw him as someone I thought to know very well. Watson was someone I trusted which left me feeling betrayed.

"My father ordered you to keep a watchful eye over me!"

"Well, that is not _quite_ how it came about…"

"DID HE OR DID HE NOT order you to watch out for me in the event of his death?" I asked. I was too angry to be astonished at a rare version of a stuttering Watson. "TELL ME THE TRUTH!"

My little apartment, the same I had shared with my father, felt so much bigger to me. Three bedrooms, a newly redone kitchen, and two full bathrooms. My bedrooms, dad's, and one for any guests, even though no one ever visited. Emily, when she came to the city, had her own place so the spare bedrooms now served as a reminder for how alone I was. Now, I had two guest rooms. After dad, I was surprised in my ability to keep not only the living room but the entire apartment tidy. How he preferred it. It was the least I could do.

Except now, I wanted to see it all in shambles. I wanted to destroy anything that reminded me of him which was my entire reality.

My father helped me pick out everything in the living room. From the purple throw rug that represented our shared high-school even though we walked through the halls 30 years apart. To the classic movie posters, some of our favorites, covering the walls from top to bottom. Not to mention the furniture purposely stayed on the homey and comfortable side. Soft colors not to take away from the people that sat on them. Big fluffy chairs that you could rest completely when reclined. A large sofa or two with extra wide cushions so you could lay from one side to the other without touching both ends.

" _Yes_ ; your father even went to the extent of writing up a binding contract," Watson said.

My heart flared up. It helped to pace around my living room as I processed information. My fists were clinched and awkwardly at my side to work off some frustration without sinking to other physical options.

"So, tell me how, my father _supposedly_ dying as nothing more than a horrendous act of old age has enough time to create a bond of legal proportion that miraculously protects his only daughter? Not only in the terms of any financial, physically, but also covering and/or anything else? Then has the gall to make demands for me to get them fulfilled?"

Mr. Watson tried to speak up, but I didn't even stop to catch my breath. I felt lightheaded and my cheeks were growing a tomato red. "And what the hell is _he_ doing here? In my home, nonetheless! Whatever agreement or bargain my father had with Mr. Fisher, I want no part of it."

"Hey, that makes two of us then," Mark said with a shrug of his shoulders, his chest out, and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.

I felt more powerful today compared to yesterday. Not only was I on my own turf but with my lucky Cubs hat on. I went out of my way to point it out to Mark. I felt like a badass because of the brunette wig so utterly close to the hair I was born with concealing my bald head. I felt strong even if I was upset with my father, which I most certainly was, but it wouldn't change anything. Dad was still dead and I was here taking care of his mess. I needed comfort. So, that morning I threw on dad's favorite deep-dish pizza tee. If I focused on that instead of screaming my head off at Mr. Watson, I could almost pick up dad's scent hidden in the navy fabric.

Mr. Watson still had the contract in his hand. A huge stack of papers filled to the T with legal jargon. I snatched them, moved between the couches, and toward the window.

I saw the chicken scratch across the top and the muscles in my torso spasmed. My father hadn't possessed the prettiest of writing. It was a 65-year-old kindergartener who still hadn't learned appropriate spacing.

" _Apparently, the first letter didn't get through. You stubborn child. You have forced me to take legal action against you… to protect you."_

I unfolded the papers and read it aloud as I skimmed through and clutched the pile of papers too tight. My frustration mounting with every word.

"Rules upon rules! Have you even read over this?" I asked Watson and he nodded. "Ms. Dill must meet with Mr. Fisher once a week. Any electronic contact does not suffice (i.e. phone call). Ms. Dill must be at the local district office located on Michigan Avenue every other business day and the second Friday of every month for a conference call with the central office to evaluate her performance."

"Those are simply formalities, dear. You must act as if you are an employee to receive benefits," Mr. Watson said. I shot him a look over the paper that I believed would keep him quiet.

"I must quit any and all outside related work with any competing companies and their clients," I said.

"Well, we can't have you working with a rival marketing team. That's bad business."

"Ms. Dill must participate in every treatment required by a doctor of her choice. Oh, how nice, a doctor of my choice? How kind of them!" But it was the last line that caught my attention. I squinted and brought the document closer till it practically brushed like sandpaper against the tip of my nose.

"Ms. Nicole Dill must adhere to these conditions set forth by the decreased, Mr. Allan Dill, for approximately one year, 12 calendar months, or she is to knowingly forfeit any and all ownership over her personal residence, corporation, medical, and walk away from the company and all its benefits."

I balled up the papers, moved up, and bounced it off Mr. Watson's head. The ball of garbage rolled somewhere under the maroon couch. I demanded the two jugheads left the property, while it was still mine, and quickly, before I removed them myself.

Mr. Watson persisted, "Miss Nikki! It states in the contract if you are not to agree and meet the criteria you will lose all financial backing: no more housing, medical, or food expenses taken care of by the company. You could even be sued for what the company has put up already!"

"Yeah well, it also threatens to take my dog away, but why don't we see if you can!"

Mark, respectfully, moved to the threshold but looked behind at Mr. Watson with his arms crossed. "Going after the little girl's puppy? That's a low blow, mate."

I pushed Mr. Watson along his away with a firm hand between the shoulder blades hidden by the suit jacket. I shoved him over the threshold and into the hallway along with his briefcase. But I didn't lay a hand on Mark. I knew he intended to leave this time without physical help.

"I am not a little girl!" I said to Mark. Then looked at both. I could feel my eye twitching with a headache on the horizon. "I won't be blackmailed by anyone, not even my dead father!" I slammed the heavy door and locked the deadbolt behind them.

 _Outside my door_

"I don't know what I am going to do with that child," Watson said with a heavy hand to his forehead.

"I don't know what you expected, Bill. You threatened her."

Mr. Watson dropped his hand and, with the other, shoved his briefcase into Mark's stomach. "You deal with her then. It's your ass on the line as well, Mark." Watson groaned. "I need a smoke." Watson practically jogged to the exit and left Mark to his own devices.

With a sigh, and the briefcase tucked under one arm, Mark raised a fist slowly to rack his knuckles against the door.

I was on the floor, opposite side of the door, with my hunched back against it. My knees pulled up and my head in my hands. I did not cry, though, and when I heard the knock, I didn't even move an inch.

"Go away," I said.

I heard a thunk from on the other side and I bit back a laugh as I pictured Mark's big forehead falling against it. Everyone, including myself, were in the middle of a very long day. With more yet to come. All I could dream of was a beautiful cup of dark-roast coffee calling my name. So, I pushed off the floor and trotted into the kitchen just off the living room.

Against my better judgement, I made it a double. I set one cup by my chair on the glass end table. My father's superhero lamp keeping a watchful eye on my mug. I carried the other to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled back on the knob. I kept one foot out to stop the door from opening completely. I handed the mug out to Mark without a smile.

"Can you go, now?" I asked.

Mark looked down at the owl printed mug with steam coming beautifully off it, something out a magazine, and back up at me. Then at the mug and me again. A futuristic device Mark had never seen, I thought sarcastically. I held it out further, practically shoving it into his stomach, and I cursed my height because I meant to thrust it toward his chest. I didn't want to spend a second treating anyone's burns from hot coffee. Mark took the hot mug with careful finger placement.

"You made me coffee?"

"No, I made _me_ coffee. I just made too much, guess you could call me a good hostess. But the party's over, leave. Take the mug, I do not care. Just go."

Mark brought it to his lips and took a careful sip. He hummed, however, his feet did not shift. I could feel a sporadic twitch coming on but I rubbed a few fingers over my eye to hold it off. I wanted to take my own sip. I wanted a shower and I wanted him to leave. I didn't know then that I'd be waiting all day. I huffed, turned around, and left the door open as I took a seat and a big gulp of my coffee. I threw a particularly fluffy blanket over my crossed legs and leaned back as I watched Mark take careful steps, like a ninja trying to get around quietly in an occupied home, into the room. He closed the door softly, but did not stray any further. A dog introduced to a new home and not knowing where to begin.

I focused more on my cup even though Mark didn't take a seat. I focused on trying to maintain calm and let go of the stress even for a moment. I didn't care for people standing over me. It turned my stomach to knots. I was struggling just fine until Mark opened his big mouth.

"You know… It did strike me as odd," he said.

I groaned but didn't look up. I set the mug down with a loud clink and started picking away at the Cubs blanket on my lap. I thought Mark would get bored and leave if I didn't provide him with the reaction he wanted. I couldn't understand why I had opened the door when Mark knocked. I knew it was him. Watson was smart enough to flee when given the chance. I should have run and hide in my room, but Mark was a book that I wanted to know the ending to.

"Odd, that a girl from Texas would go all the way to _Chicago,_ " he continued.

My chin shot up and so did my guard. "What is it exactly you are implying, Mr. Fisher?"

Mark dramatically shrugged like performing a part in a play and took an extra-long drink of his coffee. The minutes tricked by. "Oh, nothing."

He had this sly look on his face. I watched as he set his drink down too and moved in my direction. I watched as he put both hands on the arms of my chair and leaned in. I had all the time in the world to get up, or stop him, but I just sat there. I didn't feel threatened like the last time. I knew if push came to shove, I'd kick his ass. Mark was too intriguing for my own good. Mark also had no understanding of personal space after being an only child. He smelled of rich earthy cologne and I tried to ignore how it invaded my nostrils. I thought I hated the smell of nature, but on him? It was tolerable.

"I'm just surprised this room isn't filled with close friends and family lending you their support. It's almost as if… they aren't aware," he said.

"So, what?"

"…then I guess, _to you,_ it wouldn't be problematic if a little something, I don't know, got out?"

I covered my chest with my twisted arms and I leaned toward him. Our faces barely apart, and my anger trying to resurface. I'd be foolish not to let it. "Are you really stupid enough to blackmail me, Mr. Fisher? My late father couldn't even succeed at that. Are you sure you wanna to go _there_ with me?"

Mark facial features changed from confidence to questioning. His eyebrows dropped and his smirk fell. He seemed to be disappointed not by his little game failing, but in himself when realizing what he had attempted. Mark glanced down, not at me, rather at himself and took inventory. I knew because I had the same look on my face many times before. He stepped back with a shake of his head as if in a bad nightmare. Mark kept his head down, eyes trained on the floor, and with a hand over his mouth rubbing his lips raw.

"No. I would never… If you don't mind, I'll be on my way."

I was content with letting him go. Hell, I was almost ecstatic. _Almost_ , but I noticed that sad look in his eyes. The brown orbs were lost at sea and I wanted to be a life raft to someone other than myself. "Whatever, just forget about it. Sit, will ya?"

Mark looked like he wanted to argue but I was daring him to try. So, he thought it over, realized better, then went out of his way to sit on the couch across the room. I smiled. Mark had expected to already be clear out that door. He shifted his expensive tennis shoes nervously and we both heard paper skid across the floor as he kicked the wad. Mark bent over to pick it up and started undoing it.

After a few moments, Mark said with the crimple contract in his hands, "You know it's the right thing to go along with it."

I threw the blanket behind me and over the back of my chair. "That's funny," I said, "coming from someone who tells others what to do and not the other way around. You don't have an inkling of what that must feel like, do you?"

Mark moved his head side to side while glancing down at the piece of paper, but he didn't seem upset at my comment. It could have, easily, been taken as an insult. However, Mark stayed quiet and let me speak. I slid to the end of the chair and leaned in his direction.

"How would you like it if you were told when to eat, when to sleep, when to live, and… when to die?" I asked.

Mark moved forward on the couch cushion, mimicking my stance, and genuinely contemplated it. Then he put his elbows on his knees and said, "I guess, I wouldn't care for it."

" _Exactly._ So, do you still think it's a good idea to sign away the last bit of life I have left?"

"No… but you gotta have a back-up plan then, right?"

"Why do you care?" I asked.

"Consider it a final gesture for Allan." Mark shrugged, and put his hands up in defense.

I sighed, and hated how curious I was. Why did I care what relationship Mark and my father shared? I heard the wings of birds flutter outside my window and glanced over. I wished how easy it would be if I could just fly away and leave it all behind. How easy it would be to give it all up and disappear into thin air. Like the breeze over the skyscrapers and into the air.

Without looking at Mark, I answered honestly.

"No, I don't."


End file.
